IN THE STARLIGHT, behind the shrubbery, M. Pujol practices his scales. Although his backside has now been put to other uses, and the only sounds he utters are those involuntary moans, he dreams of one day returning to the stage. What a pity that the widow expresses no interest in his true talent. If only she could hear his repertoire: this the timid fart of the young girl, this the bride on her wedding night (very little) and the morning after (very loud), this the dressmaker tearing two yards of calico, this the storm clouds thundering in the sky, this the cannon defending the coastline. Surely, it would delight her. Surely, she could sponsor his triumphant return!
He confides to Madeleine: I think if I were to do one or two vocalizations....
But it is hopeless. The widow is a woman of voluptuous tastes and wide experience; only the prudish could take pleasure in his gift. The body's eruptions, he realizes, hold no power over those who have moved beyond embarrassment. How terrible it is to recognize that one's brilliance rests solely upon the small-mindedness of others.
M. Pujol's head droops from his long and elegant neck.
The widow has selected him, it seems, for no reason other than his William II moustache, his Ledaen body. His expression of sweet, dreaming melancholy.